


Best Shared

by freakylemurcat



Series: Two Good Mechs [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Come as Lube, Creampie, Cuckolding, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 19:32:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18239279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: Prowl knows he has something fantastic in Jazz.(He just wants to make sure others know it as well.)





	Best Shared

Prowl keys in his private code for the outer door of his private rooms, digits almost trembling with anticipation. The metal is barely open before he slips through and relocks the door.

Waiting is no longer on his mind.

Normally he might have brought a datapad or two back to work at over the evening, but today he has been thoroughly distracted all day and therefore has a good armful. He drops them in an untidy pile on a chair in the little anteroom and hurries to the berthroom.

The sight inside is _glorious._

Jazz writhes under the weight of a bigger mech, hips hitching into the heavy thrusts against his aft. His face plates are pushed against the cushion of the berth - _their_ berth, Prowl's processor supplies with a deep, dark lust-filled jealousy - but no doubt he senses the new presence in the room.  
  
Ironhide smirks, looking less winded than Prowl would have expected for a mech of his age given how long the interface has been going for. Jazz had been moaning through their private comm for joors now; about how big the mech was, how thick his spike was, how much transfluid had been pumped into his valve. Prowl had thought he might overload from that alone, the knowledge his lover had been fragged desperate by a mech that wasn't himself, and then Jazz had crooned a soft moan about the size of Ironhide's fingers stuffing his aft port.  
  
Prowl had not resisted a klik longer. He had been planning to come back at the end, when Jazz's valve would be well used and his frame lax, but this was too good to miss.  
  
Carefully, he settles on the berth, leaning against the pillows like he is reading a datapad before recharge. The foam absorbs most of the force from the thrusts, but the rock of Ironhide's hips against Jazz' aft is forcible enough to still register.    
  
With a grunt, Ironhide rolls to the side, drawing Jazz with him so the mech is still held tight to him, back to broad front. Clanging echoes about the room, as he frags the saboteur harder for a moment. Behind his visor, Prowl has no doubt Jazz' optics would be rolling; certainly it takes him a few kliks to recognise his lover's stiff frame and hungry gaze. When he does though it was _lovely_....  
  
"Oh _Prowl_ ," he cries out, servos reaching out, black digits scrabbling over Prowl's pale plating. Previously those servos had driven the tactician mad with lust, but now they are just frantic in their own right. "Prowler!"  
  
"Sweet," chuckles Ironhide, changing his pace to slow, pointed strokes that has Jazz' engine roaring. "He's moaned your name like a pleasurebot for joors."  
  
"You better have stretched him well," says Prowl, tartly. Beside him Jazz nearly yowls at the next deep thrust and grind.  
  
"Better than _you_ ever could."  
  
"Prowl!" wails Jazz again. His digits stroke at Prowl's chin and throat, drawing him closer down. "Prowler, he's _ruining_ me."  
  
"Good," groans Prowl and let himself be drawn into a kiss, Jazz' mouth going slack in pleasure as Ironhide's pace pummels into his aft a little harder.

He can explore with his lip plates or, as he does now, he can push his sensitive digits past plump lips. Jazz moans and permits his debauchment; Prowl shivers when two of Ironhide's big fingers push in beside his own. They tangle and pet over the slick surfaces of his glossa and cheeks, hooking into soft plating to turn his head this way and that. Beautiful, capable, devastatingly competent Jazz, turned to a shivering pliable wreck and still calling for his _Prowler_...

Prowl's engine snarls in sick delight, whole frame humming with lust.  
  
Ironhide chuckles and shunts his hips forward so hard Jazz wails again. "Make yourself useful mech, and hold 'im open so I can pump him full, and then you can finish off your own twisted kicks."  
  
If Prowl had been running less of a charge he might complain, but as he is he shuffles down and in closer, reaching out to cup Jazz' lovely aft and pull the plating a little bit further open. Ironhide's pelvic armour will bruise his digits like this, but it is worth it for having Jazz' face buried against his neck cables, panting open mouthed and stunned, crooning mindlessly.  
  
"That's it," groans Ironhide, slamming in hard once, twice, three times, and then shuddering, sparks crackling across exposed wires as his overload grounds hot charge. He moans, pushing in as tightly as possible and holding still. Jazz cries out frantically into Prowl's collar-facing as he is filled with hot thick transfluid. "Good mech," Ironhide grumbles, hitching his hips in even tighter. "That's it, take it all."  
  
By now Jazz is insensible, a writhing, sobbing mess pinned between them both. Ironhide's optics are narrow and pleased as he nips a path up the back of the mech's neck struts, watching Prowl's face for any reaction.  
  
Prowl is burning with lust; hungry, twisting and alive with it. His spike is pushing insistently at his pelvic panel, popping the thin metal uncomfortably, and his engine rumbles at a high rev. He schools his face though, as if he could hide the effect Jazz' thorough ruination has on him, but nothing can disguise the shudder of lust that runs across his frame at the lovely broken sound Jazz makes when the spike slips free of his abused port.  
  
Ironhide must see right through it, but he is a mech who has had the chance to empty his transfluid reservoirs into someone else's gorgeous mate and therefore makes no comment. He turns Jazz' head back to him and kisses him firmly, with plenty of sloppy glossa, until Jazz' fans are full bore to cope with the lack of air cooling his processor.

Prowl can stand it no longer.  
  
The second Ironhide's grip is released, Prowl pounces, dragging Jazz' frame further down the bed like a predator hauling his prey in. The world has focused down to the mech underneath him now, squirming prettily as he hauls thick legs apart and runs his digits across the bare protoform at the apex of shaking thighs. The mesh of his valve is puffy and swollen, glossy with lubricant and thick transfluids, and the rim of his port beneath is slack and soft. The temptation to just press his face in and revel in the mess is almost as great as the urge to stuff his spike in, but Prowl has been imagining this all day and it is even better than the best images in his processor..  
  
Jazz groans as he slides in, a long low tone that harmonises with Prowl's own growl. His valve is slicker than normal with excess lubricant and Ironhide's fluids, negating any friction but ramping up the charge between nodes. Prowl hitches his hips in as close as he could, bracketing them as close as their chassis will allow, and pistoning in.  
  
It is _good_ : glorious, hot and wet and Prowl has to clench his teeth tight to avoid calling out in pleasure. Beneath him Jazz has no such compunctions, squirming and sobbing and moaning like a well trained buymech. Bots would pay thousands of credits to have such a sweet little beauty impaled on their spike, writhing keenly to have it as deep as possible, and Prowl has it all for _free_.  
  
Servos plastered to Jazz' aft, he leans forward until the metal of their frames screeches and throws up sparks, and frags in hard. He is getting paint transfers all over his thighs and pelvic plating; Jazz' own silky black and red transfers passed from Ironhide, so now he looks like the one that has been fragging mech after mech.  
  
"You're so fragging hot," he moans. "You beautiful _whore_."  
  
"Prowler!" Jazz shudders, his valve cycling weakly to fit down to Prowl's spike and thighs clenching sporadically around his lover's waist. He would leave more transfers there, thinks Prowl deliriously, marks of his own.  
  
That is what he wants. Evidence that this gorgeous creature - the mech that everyone wants -  is running hot and desperate for Prowl instead. He snarls as much into Jazz' sensitive audial and then can no longer control his moan of pleasure as Jazz overloads around him. The charge grounds hard against his protoform, and it is only sheer mad determination that keeps him online as he overloads himself.  
  
Slick silver spills from Jazz' valve, too well used to hold it in any longer as Prowl fucks through the last few spikes of his climax. When the last joules of his charge have dissipated, his protoform aches with the current and he has to withdraw, to separate entirely from his lover. He can bring himself only to kneel at the end of the berth - any further feels like abandonment.  
  
Jazz wriggles and whimpers at the loss, trying to shut his thighs and then gasping at the unwanted pressure on his abused array, snapping his legs wide again. Movement spurs fresh rivulets of transfluid to seep free. Prowl can only watch, processors ticking over slowly in the wake of his overload.  
  
There is a mocking click from the side of the berth. Prowl's optics draw away from Jazz' form reluctantly; Ironhide has leant himself against the bulkhead with the best view and is smirking to himself.  
  
"After all that work I did on his port, and you go straight for the valve." Ironhide shakes his helm in mock despair. "And here I thought you were kinky."  
  
Prowl's processor fumbles with the connection to his vocalisers, still a little stunned from the force of his overload, but already Jazz is starting to fall out of the persona he has been occupying. He lolls comfortably in the sheets, servos running absently over his abdominal plating and hips like he isn’t entirely sure who they belong to. "Like anything would touch the sides after you fragged me like you did."  
  
"Didn't hear you complaining at the time." Ironhide chuckles.  
  
"That would have required a spare byte of processor space." Jazz sighs and stretches luxuriously, apparently unaware of the two sets of optics raking down his frame. "I was occupied. _Thoroughly_ ."  
  
The other mech's leer cuts a little close to home for Prowl; he creeps forward again to lay across Jazz's frame like he's a blocky pillow. Jazz reaches down and pets his helm like he were a favoured pet and Ironhide rumbles a self-satisfied laugh as he cocks a salute. "All right, all right. Point taken, mech. I'll leave you to him."  
  
Jazz makes a noise of complaint, extending a elegant beckoning arm for Ironhide to approach once more. Prowl watches, processor still stunned and dim, as they exchange a brief soft kiss before Jazz permits Ironhide to take his leave. A brief touch of a big servo drifts over Prowl’s helm in thanks and then they are left alone.

As the door shuts, Jazz’s servo drifts back to Prowl's chevron in a slow stroke.  
  
“Jazz," Prowl says, a little stupidly. “You are mine, right?”  
  
"Ah, Prowler," says Jazz, petting him fondly again. "I think you'll find you're _mine_."

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanons are as follows
> 
> 1\. Jazz and Prowl are banging.
> 
> 2\. Prowl is the kinky one - you know he's nasty. Jazz would happily frag missionary style every night, but he's pretty much up for whatever.
> 
> 3a. Prowl is under the misconception he is the one in charge. 
> 
> 3b. Jazz knows better.


End file.
